Going Away
by ImpalaLove
Summary: Tag to 13x23. Spoilers. "There is a moment where everything is perfect."
1. Going Away

**Tag to the end of 13x23, so SPOILERS if you're not caught up.**

* * *

 **Going Away**

There is a moment where everything is _perfect_.

It is a moment caught right after the spaces of another moment, a piece of time preceded by the seconds within which he plunges an archangel blade into Lucifer's stomach. Dean watches as the Devil's eyes glow bright and red, and he has been around fire long enough to know the signs of a dying flame, the last embers that flicker, flicker, and finally die out.

It seems surreal.

It seems impossible.

Because the Devil is dead, and _here they are_.

There is the sound like coals over a fire, and it is the remnants of Lucifer's singed wings, forever scarred into the floor, just inches from where they stand. There is a sound like relief, and it is the breath that falls from Sam's lips.

"Is he…?" asks Jack, part fear and part relief and maybe a small part grief for the father he never even began to have.

"He's dead," Sam answers, turning to face his brother. He looks at Dean the way he used to look at him, back when Dean would make the bullies at school disappear. He looks at Dean like he is the sun, like he has found a way to blot out the night. Permanently. "You did it," his baby brother says to him. Dean examines the blade in his hand, remembering how it had found its way into his grip.

"No," he corrects. "No. We did it." He repeats it, just to hear the words aloud again. _"We did it."_

And it is all _perfect_.

Mom is safe at home. Bobby and Charlie exist in the world again, in one form or another. And there is something almighty flowing through Dean's veins, coloring his blood in vibrant blue. There is power like he's never felt pushing over the edges of his skin, radiating out from his heart and rolling along the backs of his eyes like a wide open doorway with the light flowing in. He can taste it on his tongue. He can feel it moving along the outside of his bones. The constant doubt inside his head is gone, replaced by this pulsing, ethereal glow. There is no lack of faith, no insurmountable pile of crap that just keeps building up inside his head, tearing at his every thought. There is only power. There is only purpose.

Dean wonders, for a moment, what it means now that Jack no longer has _his_ power. If they'll really get the chance to take a step back like they'd been talking about. And it had been a real wish, a true feeling inside his gut. It had felt like the beginning of the end. But even if they can't retire, even if Jack has lost his mojo, Dean thinks they've at least earned a break. Maybe even a month away. He can't remember the last time he's had a goddamn margarita. And he can already smell the beach. He can hear the waves. He can feel his toes sinking into the shoreline, the water sweeping over his ankles and coloring the world slowly, lazily, with sunset red. He can feel it all.

And then something inside of him _moves_.

Dean chokes, mid-breath, and tries to let his lungs find oxygen. He stutters over his air, feels something dark and heavy and _not him_ pressing against his limbs, his chest, his head, his every cell. There's no time to fight back, no time to gather defenses because he's never had to build any like this before, and then his fingers aren't working like they should, aren't moving the way he wants and he knows it's over but he can still feel his lips, so he uses them.

"WE HAD A DEAL!" Dean growls, and later he thinks he might have tried to pick some better words if he had known they would be the last he'd speak with his own tongue. He feels himself straighten, a puppet who no longer needs its strings, and there is nothing of himself in the motion. There is only _Michael_ now.

" _NO!"_ he screams, but his lips do not so much as twitch. He tries to find his little brother's face, tries to tell Sam that he's sorry, that he'll find a way back _somehow_ , but Michael flicks his eyes to the ceiling, casual, as if contemplating whether or not that damn margarita should be frozen or on the rocks. And then Michael opens Dean's mouth, uses his voice to speak words that don't belong:

"Thanks for the suit."

Dean doesn't even get a last glimpse of Sam before Michael spreads their wings and vanishes.

* * *

 **There will be one more chapter for this, and it'll be pure speculation about season 14. I'll post it soon, probably at some point tomorrow.**


	2. Coming Back

**Okay, here's part 2 (the final part of this little story).**

* * *

 **COMING BACK**

His lips are trembling.

It's the first thing he notices, and it's significant because his lips haven't done that in a long time. There is a control to each of his movements. There is a steadiness in each step he takes, each needless breath that swells out through his lungs. He knows this like he knows the layout of the Universe, the whole, grand design of the thing. He remembers the day the first stars were born, but even more beautiful was the day that first star died, exploding into oblivion, the pieces careening out into empty space and pushing holes into the blackness. There is something else, now, trying to push against the blackness, and he realizes it is the blinking of his eyelids, though he doesn't remember telling them to move. He hasn't told his body to move in a long, long time. He hasn't needed to.

He pays attention to this, too, because he knows it's all significant. Tries to gain control of those blinks, tries to see more in those spaces between the black. He knows it is impossible, and yet, he can feel his eyes follow the command. There is just a ceiling. Then, suddenly, a voice.

" _Dean?"_ it floats out of the emptiness like the wisps of a soul's ascent, filling up the air. He thinks he might recognize the voice, but it would help if he could see the face it belongs to, so he blinks again and then finds the rest of his limbs, tries to sit up. He doesn't make it far, but he hears the voice again, that name again, and he feels a warmness against his shoulders, something pulling at his uncooperative arms until he is leaned back against something soft and unbreathing.

"Dean, talk to me," says the voice. "Dean, please."

He turns his head a little, toward the sound, not sure why it takes so much effort. He doesn't remember feeling heavy, never like this. Never in the movements of his neck and shoulders and his eyes that still blink almost without his permission, too rapidly and too often. He can't control any of it ( _right?_ ), and he wonders why he's here in this room, sitting in a bed with Sam Winchester leaning out of the chair beside him, his eyes gone wide and his mouth curled so far down into a frown, it almost looks like he's acting out a stage production and wants to make sure the back row can see his expression. He knows Sam Winchester. He remembers him as he remembers all humans, but Sam has always been different, the echo of his brother. Of Lucifer. _Right?_

"Where am I?" he asks, annoyed that he has to. He knows he should recognize this place with its high walls, the shotguns propped up against them, the curve of the lamp on the table beside the bed he sits on, still too tired ( _tired?_ ) to move. It feels like someone's dream, though, like there's something misplaced and wrong within the space and he won't know what it is until he wakes up. But he doesn't have to sleep. He doesn't dream. He just... _they_ just… _?_

Sam sighs this long breath, a relief so clear that his face stretches almost unnaturally as it spreads into a weak smile, a smile that looks as though he's forgotten where his teeth go.

"You're home, Dean," Sam Winchester says, sinking back a little into the chair. Giving him space to look around. "You're finally home."

He doesn't hear the words.

He can't process anything, because suddenly he knows what's wrong. He knows what's missing.

"Where are they?" he whispers, horrified, his fingers curling into the bed sheets. Sam Winchester shakes his head, as if he doesn't understand. As if he doesn't know what he's _done_.

"What, Dean? Where's what?" Sam asks. He looks tired, but they...he...can't focus on that right now. It's not important. _Isn't it important?_

"My...our...they're gone!" he shrieks, trying desperately to pull himself up from the bed. But his balance is all wrong, body eskew. He can't find his equilibrium, because it's been stolen from him.

"Please Dean," Sam whispers, reaching out a placating hand. "Tell me what's wrong. What's gone?"

He tears himself away from Sam, but his body only slumps uncooperatively back against the pillows behind him. The loss hits him fully, then, and his face crumples with it. He _feels_ his face crumple, and it's confusing because they haven't...his emotions haven't been on his face in such a long time. They don't show them. They only show what _he_ wants, say only what _he_ wants to say.

His head hurts, and he runs a hand along his hair. This, too, shouldn't be happening. He doesn't _hurt_ anymore. _Did he move his own hand? Did he do that or was it...was it…?_

"Wings," he murmurs, almost to himself. "My _wings_."

Sam makes a face, something like fear. "Dean?" he says, but it sounds more like _no no no._

"You…" he starts to say, and can't remember which words come next. Doesn't understand why he gets to speak at all. Because he's speaking, he thinks. Is pretty sure it's his own thoughts being pushed into words.

"Dean, listen to me," Sam urges. "It's just you. Michael is gone, okay? You don't have wings. You don't need wings. You're here, Dean. We got you back."

He is shaking. He is shaking and he has never felt this before, this uncontrollable vibration inside his vessel...his body? _Himself_? Except it feels familiar, somehow. Like he's done it all before, but now he can't remember it. Like memories stolen. Like waking up after forty years in Hell. Except that wasn't him, was it? That was just the well-known story of Dean Winchester and he...he is...he _is_.

An angel walks into the room, then. Castiel.

 _Cas_.

He's holding a glass of water in both hands, cupping it like it's a moth with a broken wing. "Dean," says the angel, and there is so much in that name they both keep saying, the name he thinks might be his. There's a memory, then, something he didn't think he had. He remembers the taste of blood on his tongue, the _drip, drop, drip_ of it sliding down along his fingers, past the scalpel curled inside a fist and onto the ground below. And then a light. So bright he'd shielded his eyes against it, curled over himself and cowered from it. A burning, then. Something beyond Hell's pain, and it had gripped his shoulder, left a mark well beneath the skin, and pulled him from the darkness.

He breathes, and it is his own breath, and he knows this and yet he still can't control it, the way his lip begins to tremble again. And it is significant. It is _significant_.

"Cas," he tries, and it feels right as it slides off his tongue. The angel nods, but doesn't move. Waiting.

He turns next to the other man in the room, the one who sits frozen beside his bed, his eyes full. Sam Winchester.

 _Sammy_.

He says it out loud, and it tastes of everything he'd forgotten, a lifetime that never included the birth and death of the stars. He remembers the centuries passing like blinks, remembers the many names of his brothers and sisters, the soft brush of a cloud against his fingers, the unfurling of long wings and weightless feathers as he'd taken his first flight. But it never happened to _him_.

"Yeah, Dean," Sammy answers. "It's me. It's us."

He nods. _Dean_ nods. "We...I'm back?" he asks, because he knows but he needs to _know_. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head drop, hair falling over his face. When he looks up again, he's smiling, and all his teeth are in the right place.

"You're _back_ ," he confirms. He reaches out a hand, and Dean takes it, uses it to pull his brother, _his little brother_ , into him. Sam falls willingly against his chest, and Dean's eyes find Cas standing just inside the doorway, that stupid glass of water still nestled in his hands.

Dean smiles at him with his own mouth. He doesn't know if he quite remembers how, but he must get it right because Cas smiles back, sets the glass down on the dresser and goes to him, wraps strong arms around him the moment Sam has pulled back to make room.

Dean has more than a million questions, but he's not sure he could handle the answers to any of them right now. He wants to know how long, wants to know if Michael is dead, if Jack and Mom and Bobby are alright, if the world is in ruins because of what he might've done. If he'll ever get used to the hollow feeling of shoulders not adorned with wings. Of moving his own limbs. But Sam has sunk into the mattress beside him, hip resting against Dean's legs. And Cas pulls out of the hug, finally, sliding into the chair that Sam had been sitting in. And they're here.

And he's here.

And he's Dean Winchester.

And he's home.

* * *

 **I'm excited to see how they handle Dean's possession next season as well as its after-effects when they finally get him back. Possession just freaks me out if I think about it for too long, man. And for Dean, I can't imagine it, because he's always needed complete control over everything in their crazy, crappy lives.**


End file.
